


Through a Mirror - the dark universe

by bauble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12331176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: A collection of various ficlets set in the dark universe in which Arthur is 11th in the line of succession to the Empire, and Eames becomes his husband in a treaty marriage. They get up to all sorts of mayhem, both alone and together.





	1. Something wicked this way comes

**Author's Note:**

> Several ficlets written originally for Inception Bingo & AELDWS.

"Your consent is not required," is the attendant's dry, and entirely unfeeling reply.

Eames draws himself up to his full height. "I am the son of Lord Eames, brother to the Queen, and--"

"He is the son of the Empress, 11th in the line of succession," the attendant replies. She makes a small bow. "Though your royal blood is undeniable, his--"

"Trumps mine. Ugh, why must gruesome wars end and be sealed with treaty marriages?" An idea occurs to Eames. "Does he have the power to stop this wedding from going forward? Perhaps I could have presented my bad side to the painter and discouraged his interest." He chuckles. "But I jest. Of course I have no bad side."

Eames had been forced to pose in awkward, stiff-necked attire for weeks as a painter completed a full-length portrait that had been shipped off to parts unknown. To add insult to injury, he heard not a peep in reply to said painting--not a whisper about the unnameable aspect of his eyes, nor a murmur about his lips, which have moved women to weeping sonnets on more than one occasion. 

"I believe he has the power to approve or reject you as a match, but not the power to stop a marriage completely," she says. "Apparently, he found your visage adequate."

"Adequate?" Eames respects, aghast. "As though I am some commoner to be sold at market? I am--"

"I am certain his praise was far more effusive than adequate, and it is simply a matter of it not reaching my unworthy ears," the attendant says, bowing again more deeply.

"Yes, I'm certain that must be the case," Eames says, mollified. "What do they say he is like?"

"Rather clever."

"So he looks like a troll," Eames translates.

"He dresses splendidly--"

"Who belongs under a bridge."

"--and has a genial personality."

"A prince so hideous he can frighten passersby into giving him a toll under said bridge." Eames sighs and flings himself onto a chaise lounge, reaching for a freshly made bon bon with which to comfort himself. "That must be why he is not married yet, despite being in his twenty-first year. I am to marry a withered old troll whose vision is so poor he can never appreciate my world-renowned beauty and live a life of cruel, tragic irony."

"Yes, your existence is indeed a tragic irony," the attendant murmurs, bowing once more.

"At least you understand my plight." Eames waves at the bon bons. "Take these away. They taste stale. You know I can't stand chocolate that's more than a few hours old."

* * * * *

The actual wedding is a thankfully short affair. Not that Eames can see any of it, as he is forced to wear a ridiculous veil in order to be 'presented' to his future husband. He spends the hour being shuffled around from spot to spot like cattle as delegates from the two countries drone on about peace, love, and everlasting prosperity. 

Eames is eventually prodded into his final position for the wedding, across from the vague outline of a man. He girds himself for a truly unfortunate visage accompanied by dreadful halitosis as his veil is lifted.

And blinks in confusion at the handsome, dark haired man standing before him.

"Prince Arthur, may I present to you your bri--er, bright husband. May the joy you share shine brightly on us all." the officiant says, narrowly avoiding a diplomatic scandal that could set two nations aflame in war again.

"It's very nice to meet you, Eames," Arthur murmurs, voice deep and utterly gorgeous. Not a trace of halitosis, either. "I have some big plans for us."

Eames begins to smile. "It is indeed."

The kiss isn't terribly good--noses bumping, teeth clinking--but it feels like the beginning of something wicked.

fin


	2. Home Sweet Home

The food tastes strange. The language is grating. The court is insufferable. Being the foreign consort of an out-of-favor prince is simultaneously tedious and life-threatening, a combination Eames never thought possible before.

He hates virtually everything about the Empire enough to make him almost nostalgic for his homeland. Really, what he misses is familiarity and stability and not having to fight off assassins in the middle of the night.

The evening that happened, Eames raced to the prince's chambers and demanded the guards summon his husband. After an interminable wait, Arthur finally appeared, irritable with lack of sleep and seemingly unsurprised by the attack. He followed Eames into his bedroom, nudged the assassins' corpses with a toe, and declared that it was likely Genevieve's handiwork.

"Who the hell is Genevieve?" Eames replied, frustrated by how nonchalant Arthur seemed about the whole thing.

"My sister and next in line for the throne behind me," Arthur said. "These aren't her best men. I assume this was either a warning or she believed you were just another fragile Northerner. Wrongly, apparently."

Arthur returned to his chambers and refused to allow Eames to join him. When Eames protested, Arthur said, "The bodies have been removed and she's not going to try again tonight."

With great effort, Eames restrained himself from shouting that was rather beside the point. He'd learned within the first weeks of arriving in the Empire that yelling was entirely ineffective; Arthur would roll his eyes, walk away, and his guards would block Eames from following. Unfortunately, Eames hasn't come up with a good alternative to yelling yet, which meant he was left left fuming impotently in the corridor.

"Cheer up," one of Arthur's guards said. "It could be worse."

The worst thing by far, Eames decided that evening, was the people.


	3. Threshold Consciousness

Arthur wakes up to someone in his bed. He reflexively goes to stab the intruder.

In a stroke of luck for Eames (the person in question), Arthur's violence is stayed by a condition which sometimes afflicts him upon waking: whole body paralysis. He is able to think and sense the world, but unable to move so much as a toe.

Arthur listens to Eames breathe. It's not the deep, steady rhythm of unconsciousness; Eames is observing him in the predawn light. Arthur evens his own breathing pattern, pretending to be asleep as he takes in the quality of Eames' gaze. He can feel the attention on his cheek--as if Eames were memorizing every detail. There is no emotion in it. Arthur has felt infatuated stares upon him often; every other commoner believes him to be the key to wealth and everlasting happiness, the prince at the end of their own personal fairy-tale.

Arthur tamps down the rising panic. His own foolishness is to blame. The fucking yesterday evening had been enjoyably exhausting, which led Arthur falling asleep instead of sending Eames back to his own bedchamber. Now here he is, frozen and utterly defenseless. If Eames knew--

But Eames says nothing, does nothing. Minutes pass, and the grip of sleep paralysis loosens. When the paralytic spell lifts, Arthur opens his eyes. Eames looks back at him, unafraid. Curious, perhaps.

Calculating.

It is not the first time Arthur wonders what he sees. Nor, he suspects, will it be the last.


	4. Inauspicious

Having enjoyable sex is an inauspicious start to a royal marriage.

It's a terrible idea--handing Eames the opportunity to disfigure or outright kill Arthur on any given evening--yet Arthur can't summon willpower enough to resist. Not when confronted with that gorgeous body spread so invitingly, or that luscious mouth eager for cock and fingers and more.

If his siblings knew how much Arthur fantasized about Eames, he would be a laughingstock. Expedient intercourse with spouses is what's called for until a satisfactory number of heirs are produced; if one must indulge in ill-advised passionate fucking, hire a prostitute. This is what Arthur gets for being foolish enough to choose a beautiful man instead of that perfectly dowdy princess with a face like a turnip.

The worst part isn't the sex itself, though. It's the talking. The way Eames makes Arthur laugh with barbed wit. The way Arthur looks forward to discussing the machinations at court with Eames almost as much as he enjoys stuffing cock in Eames' holes. If Arthur's father were still alive, he would be appalled at Arthur's newfound sentimentality.

Infatuated with his own husband. It's disgusting and unnatural and Arthur isn't sure he wants it to stop.


	5. The Pit of Vipers

Eames is surprisingly useful around court.

Now, there's no denying that he's shallow, petty, vain, and the--bar none--laziest person Arthur has ever met. He's also selfish, unreliable, given to a nearly pathological amount of lying, and will spread his legs for anyone who gives him a second glance and tells him he's pretty. Arthur can't count the number of closets he's found Eames in _sans_ trousers, which had been rather exasperating, because one of the first things Arthur had emphasized in the course of their marriage was discretion.

Over time, Arthur came to realize that Eames is constitutionally incapable of anything resembling discretion except when it suited him, and most of Arthur's aims do not, in fact, suit him. It's not that he is against them--no, he enthusiastically supports nearly all of them, especially the sexual ones--it's just that they don't matter because they aren't his explicit whims. And so, Arthur had to find a way to use Eames' dramatic, attention-seeking nature to his advantage. Because to do anything else would surely drive them both to madness.

Thus, Eames has become the finest, most devilishly alluring distraction to light up the Empress' court. Ladies fawn over him. Lords jostle for his favor (and the chance to put their cock between his lips, cheeks, or thighs--anywhere will do). All the while, Arthur plays the patient, long-suffering husband, hopelessly outmatched by his dazzling foreign companion, utterly helpless and nonthreatening. The perfect cover.

Most of his siblings are not so easily fooled by this deception. The ones who managed to survive to adulthood did it only with extreme paranoia and vigilance (or, in Gregoir's case, a bizarre combination of blinding stupidity and freakish luck). Several have been taken in, a few others are themselves charmed by Eames--not without good reason. He is a stunning creature, charismatic, and ruthlessly alive. As far as Arthur knows, Eames has not slept with any of his siblings yet. He expects that to change within the next year or two.

Best of all, Eames has ensnared the most important target: the Empress.

Arthur is under no delusions that he is her favorite child. He would barely rank himself within her top five favorite sons, excluding the ones who died already. But after marrying Eames, Arthur found himself rising in her esteem by sheer proximity to his delightful peacock, and that has afforded advantages Arthur's never before been privy to.

The ability to fuck her prize horse-trainer, for example. Incredible, creamy white thighs and hair the perfect length for pulling as Arthur plows his ass.

"Oh, my prince," the trainer--Ian? Iam?--moans with every thrust. It's a bit excessive in Arthur's opinion, but he supposes erring on the side of overenthusiastic rather than under is a wise choice when dealing the royal family.

Arthur checks the clock. Eames is late--as always--which means he will have to continuing fucking Iam for longer than expected. At the rate they're going, Iam may come before Arthur does, which is irritating.

There's a sound outside the room. Arthur deliberately puts his head down, jerking Iam into a position where he can see the door opening but Arthur can't. Iam moans and then chokes at who he sees, freezing up as he tries to decide whether to try to stop Arthur or suffer the wrath of a prince's consort. Arthur sighs in pleasure; fear always makes commoners tight like nothing else.

Arthur comes inside Iam as he's trying to decide and rolls off. "Go to him," he commands with a distracted wave at Eames. "He requires your services now."

"You came ten seconds after I entered the room." Even with his eyes closed, Arthur can feel Eames pouting. "That was hardly a show at all."

"If you wanted a longer show, you should have turned up at the appointed time and not twenty minutes late," Arthur replies. He slaps Iam's quivering flank. "Go on. Get over there."

"But I'm not even hard yet," Eames whines as the thirty-thousand pounds of jewelry he insists on wearing clinks around his neck and wrists. "Arthur!"

Arthur groans and sits up. "Fine. You, come here. Yes, back here."

Iam, who had been trying to find his clothing on the floor, glances at the open door.

"Eames, close the door," Arthur says impatiently. "Really. Do you want my mother wandering in here one of these days?"

Eames cross his arms. He looks beautiful sulking, naturally. "Would you object?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I am not the one who wishes to fuck mother, that particular quirk lies solely with Leanthus. A side effect of that ridiculous name, if you ask me," Arthur says. "Unless you find the prospect of a shrieking harridan critiquing your face while you orgasm particularly erotic, the door should stay shut for all our future endeavors."

A horrified hand flies up to Eames cheek. "My orgasmic face is--"

"The most gorgeous in all the land," Arthur lies soothingly. Eames, in fact, tends to look like he's expelling a large bowel movement. Admittedly, it's still rather handsome on him, though not the best Arthur's ever seen. "You, Iam. Return to my bed at once."

Iam whispers something as he approaches, clothes bunched over his crotch in a pathetic imitation of modesty.

"What?" Arthur demands.

"Leonard, sir." At Arthur's blank stare, Iam elaborates. "My name. Is Leonard, your excellence."

"Oh." Arthur sits back. "Well, that's not a very sexy name."

"I apologize for--for my mother's lack of foresight in--"

"Arthur." Eames has collapsed into divan--he is always throwing himself dramatically onto some piece of furniture or another--and drawn out his soft dick. "I'm waiting."

"You there, come suck me," Arthur says. "And there's no need to be so frightened. Eames isn't angry at you for being here. He's rather pleased, actually. Your being here means he needs to do less work."

"Your cock is so large it makes my jaw hurt," Eames says, with a bat of his eyes that is likely meant to be endearing.

Arthur snorts as Iam begins to to lick gently. "That's not what you said about the cook."

"I'll have you know his cock has never been anywhere near my mouth," Eames declares. "Ian--Menard--whatever your name is, do be a dear and hurry up, will you? I've been waiting quite a while for some excitement."

"Iam here has agreed to grant us access to mother's stable. Where Rochelle keeps her horses," Arthur says casually, with a meaningful look over Iam's head at Eames.

Iam pulls off Arthur's cock with a pop. "Sire, I didn't--"

"You have a task, now we expect you to perform it." Arthur pushes Iam's head down and sighs with pleasure once he resumes his rather excellent cocksucking. "And as you know, my dear sister Rochelle does love to ride alone on weekends with her paramours."

Eames is stroking his own cock now, watching with avid interest. "Perhaps we should pay the stables a visit--just the two of us. You know how I enjoy sex in novel environs."

_And I enjoy my siblings coming to tragic, seemingly accidental ends untraceable to me_ , Arthur thinks but doesn't say. Of course he doesn't need to, because on the anniversary of their charade of a wedding, Arthur tied Eames to the bedposts with that ridiculous veil and fucked him till he was keening. Whispered, "I will become the next Emperor if I have to kill each and every member of my family to do it." Listened to Eames moan, "Gods, yes," and come without a hand on him.

Arthur takes a breath as Iam's wet mouth works him expertly. "I'm close."

"Good. I want to see." Eames climbs off the divan and sinks to the floor behind Iam. There's a small hiccup in rhythm when Eames pushes inside Iam. But it's not too disruptive, so Arthur decides not to reprimand Iam for it. "Keep going, you. Don't you see how close his majesty is?"

Iam forges onward and Arthur climaxes for a second blissful time. Arthur falls back onto the mattress and watches through sleepy eyes as Eames fucks himself to completion inside Iam. Perhaps Iam comes, too; he's certainly squealing loudly enough for it.

Once Eames is finished, Arthur flicks his wrist. "Leave."

Iam scrambles to his feet and grabs his clothing. "T-thank you, your majesties. I--"

"I don't care. Go." Arthur holds out an arm for Eames, who curls into it unhesitatingly. "You were magnificent."

"Thank you." Eames preens, still as easy to manipulate as the day they wed. "An enjoyable piece of ass, but aren't you worried that when Rochelle dies everyone will think we're behind it?"

"No, because he's going to run off to tell mother dearest, which means it will make its way to Gregoir, which means that tomorrow everyone in court will know that the horses are at risk of being tampered with. Which means Rochelle will skip her weekend rides and foil the plans Genevive has been setting down for months." Arthur exhales in deep satisfaction. "Genevive is going to be furious."

"Genevive, hm?" Eames runs a finger across Arthur's chest speculatively. "The pretty one with the ample--"

"Don't bother. Many have tried, all have failed. She only has sex with Rodrigo."

"Your uncle?" Eames shakes his head. "What a waste of a lovely young body."

"If you're interested in one of my sisters, you can try Angelique. I've heard some unnerving rumors about her interest in corpses, but perhaps she spread them in order to ward off would be suitors." Arthur shrugs. "Or, if you don't mind corpses, I suppose."

"You have too many siblings with too many disturbing and potentially fatal quirks." Eames burrows closer. "It's a good thing the future emperor chose me." 

Arthur's cock twitches. "Say that again."

"Future emperor." Eames murmurs as Arthur climbs on top of him. "My lord and liege, Emperor Arthur the Magnificent."

Arthur leans down to capture those sulky, sultry lips in a kiss. Yes, Eames is most useful to have around court. He is also, Arthur thinks, rather enjoyable to have around the bedroom as well.

fin


	6. Growing Secrets

[ ARTHUR ]

Arthur always assumed Eames would sleep with one of his siblings, though he was never sure which one. Would it be Angelique, of the auburn tresses and disturbing fascination with animal dissection? Or Helmuth, of the magnificent body unfettered by a functional brain? With eleven brothers and sisters, Eames had options. Not many of them good, but still.

Of all of them--including hump-backed Claire and drooling David--Arthur never thought it'd be Gregoir. Dull, dim-witted Gregoir. The lummox probably told Eames he was pretty, and that was all it took.

[ EAMES ]

After the third day spent heaving up the contents of a poison-laced meal, Eames decided enough was enough. Food tasters would keep him from dying, but they didn't help with the agony of non-lethal toxins, which were apparently plentiful in Empire.

Arthur, as per usual, was unsympathetic. If Eames wanted this issue solved, he would have to reckon with it on his own. Again.

Everyone at court fell ill sooner or later. Assassination attempts and politics were too vicious for anyone to escape unscathed, with a singular exception: Gregoir.

His constitution was something of a legend amongst the royal family. He had no reaction to common poisons. He shrugged off armed assassins. He'd survived four separate falls from high windows.  
Eames spent a week shadowing Gregoir surreptitiously, tracking his movements and daily activities. It revealed little. Eames moved closer, striking up a friendship. Easy, given Gregoir's genial temperament and oddly trusting nature.

Then Eames caught Gregoir staring overlong at his mouth and, never one to discard an opportunity, seduced him promptly.

"But Arthur--" Gregoir protested as Eames slid his arms around Gregoir's waist. He could barely do it; the man was a mammoth.

"You know Arthur isn't the jealous kind," Eames said as he tried to move Gregoir's arm. He couldn't. How strong was the giant? "All he wants is for me to be happy."

Concerns allayed, fucking commenced. Gregoir, while not especially attractive, was at least eager to please.

The next morning, Eames woke to a mountain of fresh leaves on a plate, which Gregoir claimed to be breakfast in bed. "What are these?"

"Fresh vegetables and herbs from my garden," Gregoir replied, lighting up at the subject. "Would you like to see?"

This was how Eames wound up touring a private courtyard. There were meticulously tended rows of greenery, including herbs with medicinal properties. One he recognized was used as an antidote to several poisons.

"My Da used to make his special breakfast for me every morning," Gregoir said as Eames mentally cataloged every plant in sight. "He said never to show anyone this place. But you're so pretty and smart and you've been so nice to me."

Eames smiled vaguely as Gregoir took his hand. A small change in diet was all that was required to gain virtual immunity to toxic attacks? If this was the knowledge the simplest of Arthur's siblings could provide, who knew what secrets to surviving this blasted Empire the others held?


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur is to be married.

He takes a deep breath but forces his expression to remain neutral when he hears the news; no doubt his reaction is being carefully watched. Twenty-one is getting a bit old for a prince to be unmarried, and Arthur can't remain useless to the Empire (and the Empress) forever.

He dismisses the messenger with a flick of his wrist. Notes her obvious relief as she scurries away. As if she has any cause to be frightened; he would never be foolish enough to kill a handmaiden of the Empress. The last thing he needs is to sink--further--in standing with his mother.

Details on the potential matches are scant. Arthur shouldn't be surprised; why would the Imperial Court concern itself with details of a vassal kingdom's backwater aristocracy? 

Through persistence and effort, Arthur finally ascertains that there are two candidates of marriageable age: a princess (rumored to be rather homely) and a male member of the aristocracy somewhat further removed from the royal family. Nobody seems to have any idea about their names or personalities. 

Arthur dispatches a painter to create full length portraits; one should never rely on dubious local talents. He hasn't high hopes regarding the appearance of his future spouse. That kingdom's royal family is notoriously inbred, which means it will probably come down to a decision between peg legs or elephant ears.

When the paintings return, the Empress insists on a portrait unveiling in court. Arthur's not thrilled that he's being forced to make a snap decision about who he'll marry in front of his scheming siblings and courtiers, but he has little choice.

A servant removes the velvet cloth draped over the princess' portrait first. She is as every bit homely as promised, seated within an explosion of ruffles and lace with hands folded demurely in her lap. She holds the potential for heirs, though the process would likely be an arduous and unpleasant one. And of course the difficulty with heirs is that once they're old enough, they or their regents come after your throne--as the Empress knows all too well.

When the other portrait is unveiled, an audible gasp is heard throughout the chamber. The painting depicts a male youth of roughly twenty years sprawled across a chaise lounge, legs spread suggestively. Perhaps even more arresting than the lean body his insouciant expression--meeting the viewer's gaze with heavy-lidded hazel eyes and impossibly luscious red lips. 

While titters and admiring whispers echo throughout the chamber, Arthur barely restrains himself from laughing. It's such an obvious fake he's nearly embarrassed for the court painter. Whoever bribed her to paint a false portrait to sway Arthur's marital decision clearly had no sense of subtlety. The nobleman's face is a beauty beyond fantasy, a man Arthur couldn't conjure from his wildest nighttime imaginings.

He should choose the princess simply to foil the plans of whomever was responsible for the deception. But the princess has neither face nor figure to recommend her, and the idea of rutting between her legs every night for a year in the hopes of getting a child holds makes Arthur's balls shrivel. The nobleman's visage, however--

Arthur puts it out of his mind. The genuine 'Eames' is probably deformed. And poor, to boot. However, a male consort would remove the expectation of heirs, making it easier to lock said hideous consort away in a high tower and never speak to him again.

"Well, Arthur?" the Empress says, steel grey eyes as coolly assessing as always. "Who shall be the next consort to a prince of the Empire?"

* * * * *

"Have you seen him?" Ariadne asks as she helps Arthur out of his muddy riding coat.

"Who?" Arthur pushes the wet hair back from his face. Blasted rain interrupting his hunt.

"The nobleman Eames." At his blank stare, she elaborates, "Your future husband?"

"Oh." Arthur blinks. "Yes, him. Tell me, does he have all his limbs at least? I've resigned myself to a lazy eye and premature baldness, but tell me I'm not going to be stuck with a cripple."

Ariadne gives him a strange look as she eases each gauntlet off his wrist. "So you have truly not heard, then?"

"I think it's rather obvious I've not seen nor heard anything about the matter, hence my asking you about it." Arthur yanks at the lacing of his boots, impatient to be out of his wet clothes. "Now will you simply tell me--"

"It is as if his portrait came to life and stepped out of its frame," she whispers. "The Empress was so shocked when she saw him that she ordered the painting be brought before her and compared the two side by side."

"He--" Arthur frowns as he struggles to pull one boot off, hopping on the other leg. "That portrait was accurate? That's impossible."

"I am not myself inclined that way, but even I--" she shakes her head. "He is beauty beyond compare."

"Fuck." Arthur deposits himself on the floor, legs stretched out for Ariadne to tug at a boot. "How can this be?"

"I know this isn't what you'd hoped for." One boot pops off. "Perhaps you can have him declared deranged and sent to a sanitarium?"

"If he has any sense at all he will resist that and write to his home kingdom in protest. The Empress has made it very clear she wants no diplomatic incidents for the first five years of this armistice." Arthur rubs his forehead. "Has he any wits? A foppish fool would be ideal."

"He speaks the Imperial tongue fluently and presented himself with startling eloquence." Ariadne wrestles the remaining boot off. "By all accounts he is both well-read and intelligent."

"Fuck." Arthur lies back on the floor as his meticulously wrought plans come unraveled. "Has the Empress assigned him an attendant yet? Has Genevieve killed that attendant and assigned her spy?"

"Not yet. Everyone in court was too dumbstruck by his arrival to consider such practical matters."

"At last, some piece of good news." Arthur sits up again. "Go to him. Tell him you now serve him, compliments of the Empress. You will report to me every evening with your observations, any letters he might write, and any poisons he might seek to murder me with."

"Understood, sire." She hesitates at the door, muddy riding gear in her arms.

"What is it?"

"Would you like for me to arrange a meeting? Before the wedding, that is."

Arthur tries to recall the painting from the unveiling all those months ago. The details are hazy. All that lingers is an insolent eroticism--the last thing he needs to be distracted by only days before his wedding. "No. He shall be presented to me for the first time on the day of our wedding celebration, as is tradition."

Ariadne bows. "So shall it be, sire."

* * * * *

The weeks leading up to the wedding dissolve far too quickly; Arthur has a multitude of plans to alter and set in motion with not enough time to complete them. The actual day of the wedding, however, stretches on infinitely, excruciatingly.

After being jammed into ceremonial garb with approximately one hundred pounds of steel affixed to his chest in the form of medals, Arthur is forced to ride in a parade past throngs of well-wishers through the city. Then there are tedious speeches in two languages about the 'joyful' union. At last, the presentation of his fiancé.

When the veil is lifted, Arthur retains a neutral expression while onlookers gasp in awe. Eames is, to Arthur's dismay, even more stunning than his portrait. He is fair, in the mold of his kingdom's people, with a healthy glow in his high cheeks. His nose is straight, his hazel eyes bright, and the crown jewel of his mouth is red as a ruby. More dangerous is the smoldering sensuality in his movements--only the faintest echo of which the court painter could capture in her work.

Eames' eyes widen when he sees Arthur--apparently for the first time--and dilate with unabashed interest. When they kiss, Eames is eager, hands running over Arthur's body rather presumptuously.

The rest of the wedding passes in a blur, Arthur struggling to pay attention to anything besides the living embodiment of temptation he is marrying. A part of him wonders if this has all been an elaborate hoax--a seductive assassin impersonating the nobleman to gain advantage or simply kill Arthur en flagrante. But all the foreign dignitaries recognize Eames as their own, and his bearing is unmistakably aristocratic.

The moment they are alone in the wedding chamber, Eames grabs Arthur by the waist and mutters, "Bloody finally." The kiss is messy and wet, something Arthur absolutely should not be indulging in. One should not grope and tear at the clothes of their royal consort. Nor should one fall on the bed and rut furiously until one spills.

"Utterly gorgeous," Eames says as he peels Arthur's sweat-soaked clothing back with surprising dexterity. "I had hoped, but dress uniforms can be deceiving--"

Arthur reclines in bed while Eames prattles on. Eames' Imperial is accented, but fluent and comprehensible. His body is a creamy alabaster so rarely found in the Empire, where Arthur is considered light-skinned. His cock is a pleasing shape, relatively short and thick, and still hard despite having ejaculated. He smells foreign, exotic. Everything about him is arousing.

Arthur glides one hand down Eames' lightly hairy chest before wrapping around to cup his surprisingly substantial backside. Arthur dips one thumb into the crevasse, and notes the shiver that runs through Eames' body.

Eames slips out of the last of his clothing and says, voice husky. "Where is the oil?"

Arthur sits up to retrieve a vial from the nightstand. Eames lies back on a pillow with the self-satisfied expression of a man used to being serviced.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at the impudence as he slicks his cock, but withholds comment. Eames watches, avid, lips slightly parted. Arthur imagines working his cock into that mouth, coming down the column of that elegant throat--and chastises himself for such foolish thoughts. That's how you end up with a bleeding stump for a dick like cousin Percy.

Eames spreads his legs with startling flexibility and accepts Arthur's fingers with a pleased hum. He is warm and tight, hips already moving as he chases his own pleasure. Arthur should punish him for the impertinence, but it is impossible to think of anything but burying himself as deeply inside Eames as he can go.

When Arthur replaces fingers with cock, he nearly groans with how good it is. Eames lifts his legs to wrap around Arthur's waist and pulls him in, greedy. After Arthur is fully sheathed inside, he pauses to compose himself. If he had not come once already, he'd be on the edge of climax now. As it is, the incredible heat combined with Eames' musk and breathy sighs are intoxicating, overwhelming. Arthur feels lightheaded.

The voice of Arthur's father enters his mind: do not be distracted by pretty foreigners. You have larger goals than this.

Arthur straightens up and snaps his hips forward. Eames grunts as his arms come up to encircle Arthur, but Arthur pins them back to the mattress. Eames' eyelids fall to half-mast as his tongue flicks out to wet his lips.

Arthur fucks Eames with short, jerky thrusts that never quite hit any sort of rhythm. Eames is too distracting--from the way he tests Arthur's grip to his debauched whispers in his mother tongue. All the self-control and discipline Arthur's carefully cultivated over the years lost in less than a day to an obscene, spoiled nobleman who expects a prince to pamper him like some commoner--

Arthur comes inside Eames with a wildness and abandon that's nearly frightening. After the sharp pleasure wracking his body dissipates into a warm glow, he collapses and is surprised to find Eames between him and the mattress.

"Done already?" Eames says, sounding amused. Arthur should rebuke him for taking such a tone with his better, but can't quite muster the energy. Eames rolls Arthur off easily and wraps a hand around his leaking cock.

The last thing Arthur sees before his eyes shut is come landing on Arthur's thigh, a sharp contrast between the pale liquid and olive skin.

* * * * *

Arthur wakes to a rustle in his bed. Alarmed, his eyes fly open as he prepares to defend himself against the intruder.

But as he rolls away, the events of the previous day--and shameful evening--come rushing back. Across the landscape of rumpled sheets, Eames is watching him, fully alert.

"You make me hard," Eames says. "Something I never would have imagined saying to my actual spouse."

"Your think your sexual urges mean anything to me? Remember your place," Arthur says, voice hoarse with disuse. "I am your lord and your liege."

"Your words would be rather more convincing if your dick did not twitch with my every movement," Eames replies, unrepentant as he slithers forward in bed. "Shall we go again, my crabby little prince?"

"'Little' is not what you were moaning last night," Arthur says, tone emerging more petulant than he'd like. He should not be indulging any of this, but he woke half-aroused and the sight of Eames has only worsened the condition.

"No indeed." Eames' mouth curves up in victory as he dares to slide one leg between Arthur's, powerful thigh flexing against Arthur's cock. "You are quite large, my lord."

"You mock me." Arthur's breath quickens as Eames grinds their hips together.

"I would never." One of Eames' hands travels up the back of Arthur's knee and towards the curve of as his ass before Arthur stops it.

"No." Arthur tightens his grip on Eames' wrist in warning as he untangles their lower bodies. "Get on your hands and knees."

The look Eames shoots him is not obedient, but he does as commanded. Arthur has to bite his lip at the sight of Eames' voluptuous round ass, somehow as flawless as the rest of him. If climaxing two times might have made Arthur slow to rouse, clearly Eames is the antidote to that.

Arthur fingers him ungently, feeling a territorial thrill at the trails of dried ejaculate down Eames' inner thighs. Eames pushes back against Arthur's hand until Arthur slaps one buttock and orders him to cease. This provokes a moan and the eager spreading of legs.

Arthur sinks in with a small sigh. The sight of his cock sinking into Eames' perfect ass is glorious. He can hear Eames groaning beneath him but it feels further away, less demanding of attention. Arthur can focus more easily on the steady stroke in and out, gripping Eames' hips to move him in time.

The pleasure is immense, unrelenting. It would be easy to become addicted to these sensations. To look across a room crowded with schemers and liars conspiring to bring about Arthur's downfall and crave this escape. But of course, this is no escape at all--not truly. Even if Eames is not actively plotting to murder Arthur so he can return to his homeland, Arthur's not so naïve as to believe Eames is loyal. Anyone can be bought.

Arthur slumps on top of Eames before remembering himself and rolling off. He watches Eames jerk himself off a second time, come arcing a bit higher onto Arthur's stomach.

* * * * *

They wake and have sex a fourth time in the morning, a fact which pains Arthur even as he comes in Eames' hand, slicked by Eames' ejaculate. If Arthur's father could see him now: reduced to a slavering idiot by his own husband.

There will be no more of this, Arthur decides as he surveys the wreckage of their sex-soaked bed, his snoring consort. This level of indulgence and lunacy cannot be permitted--cannot to be allowed to calcify into habit. 

After all, if he cannot control his marriage, how will he ever rule a kingdom?


End file.
